Chapter 14
Before I could fire back a retort—my brain supplied several, but none were ready for prime time—Alaric reached for my fingers, caught them, placed a tender kiss on my knuckles between my first and middle finger, all while holding my eyes, and then gave my hand a gentle but inescapable tug.
Once more, I let him pull me in the direction of his choosing, this time just a short way down the hall until we stopped in front of a door with a brass plaque to one side that read, Presidential Suite.
He released my hand, knocked firmly, and then promptly grabbed my hand again.
The door opened and I held my breath, not knowing what or who to expect. Another ghost from my past, perhaps? Or maybe the New York City Rockettes? Perchance, seven hundred puppies? Or a gallery showing of all my childhood art?
With Alaric, it could literally be anything or anyone. He had the power and money at his disposal to make it happen.
But it was only Renee, my assistant. She wore a cable-knit sweater that looked brand new and grinned at us from the threshold. “There you are! Merry Christmas you two. Come on in.”
Oh yeah. I had completely forgotten Renee was staying at this hotel and that Brad had dropped her off here on our first day after collecting us from the airport.
“Merry Christmas! These are for you.” He held up the bag of gifts.
Renee gasped, hands flying to her cheeks. “Oh my gosh. Thank you so much!”
As we stepped into the suite, I noticed another presence. A tall, well-dressed man, hovering a distance behind her, sleeves of his matching cable knit sweater rolled to the elbow. He walked over, exuding calm.
Reaching us, he shook Alaric’s hand first, beaming. “Good to see you again. Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t mention it.” Alaric waved off the thanks. “I hope you’re having a good time. Did breakfast arrive? I told them eight thirty.”
“Yes. Room service dropped everything off a little bit ago. It’s in the dining room.” The man turned to me, smile fading as our eyes met. “Ms. Weston.”
Oh. He doesn’t like me. What an unusual experience. Maybe it was my flayed nerves, but even my internal dialogue had turned up the dial on the sarcasm. I did a quick mental inventory, but came up blank. I had no idea who this man was.
Renee drifted to my side, stage-whispering, “Now, Quinton, be nice.”
I looked at this Quinton, then at Renee. “Do we know each other?”
Quinton jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “We’ve met. I’m Renee’s fiancé.”
What? Who? Since when?
I tried to recall any mention of this and came up empty. “You’re getting married?”
Renee’s smile froze at the edges. “Yes. I’ve told you. A few times.”
My brain returned nothing but static. Perhaps Alaric’s earlier aura reveal had permanently fried my internal circuitry. I had absolutely no memory of ever meeting this fella before.
Even so, I nodded anyway, as if I’d suddenly remembered. “Ah. Yes. Quinton. It’s. . . you.”
Something about my words or tone or expression must’ve been funny because everyone laughed.
Alaric, sending me a look that immediately made me feel uncomfortable—because it was one of pure adoration—turned his crinkling eyes to Renee and said, “I’m starving. If the food is here, let’s eat.”
* * *
There was enough breakfast on the table to feed a football team. And not a pee-wee one. A pro-ball squad of athletic giants.
Quinton—apparently Renee’s fiancé, as I’d been reminded over and over during the four-minute interval between entering the suite and being shown the assembled buffet—had already buttered a scone and cut it into measured halves.
He distributed one to Renee, then set the other on his own plate with a surgeon’s confidence.
Oh no. He’s probably a ‘doctor.’
It’s not that I had anything against doctors, it’s just that they always thought they were better than everyone else just because they sometimes saved lives. So what? They also didn’t save lives from time to time. Ask me how I know.
Alaric, meanwhile, poured coffee for everyone.
Renee fussed with the napkin in her lap, picking it up a few times so that I saw she’d knotted it as a means to channel her nervous energy.
I focused on the marbled slab of smoked salmon at the center of the spread.
Omega 3 fatty acids and protein, low calorie, no carbs. Perfect.
There were also a selection of black pepper biscuits, farm to table sausage gravy, candied bacon, slow-poached eggs in hand-thrown stoneware, waffles and various topping accoutrements, every kind of pastry imaginable, honey dripping from a comb into a bowl, four kinds of butter and six flavors of jam.
It was, by any measure, way too much food for four people and the sight of it made me angry, stirred an old resentment from my childhood.
“Anything wrong?” Alaric, placing an arm along the back of my chair, bent close to whisper, “Is this okay?”
“It’s just. . . a lot of food.”
I felt him lean away and his eyes inspect my profile. He bent near again and said, “This hotel doesn’t throw away food waste from buffets. It goes to the Third Street shelter for their daily meals.”
This news surprised me and I automatically leaned away to inspect him.
The side of Alaric’s mouth barely curved but his eyes shone with a smile as he said, “That’s why I ordered the buffet.”
The benevolent billionaire strikes again.
Except, wouldn’t it be so much more efficient to simply give the shelter the money? Wouldn’t that be actual benevolence instead of this insufferable, Here. Take what I don’t want. You’re welcome.
Settling back into my seat, I eyed the smoke salmon on my plate again, feeling grumpy and unsatisfied, but it likely had nothing to do with the cornucopia of food.
I’d learned many things during our earlier four-minute preamble through the expansive sitting area to the dining room, including that Alaric had not only paid for this room through Christmas Eve, but had also flown Quinton down here and booked them two first-class return tickets to Chicago.
Additionally, he’d arranged tours for them yesterday based on their hobbies and preferences.
While I’d been forced to ride wave after wave of an Alaric-appointed emotional tsunami, Renee and Quinton had attended a Winter Holiday Market yesterday morning because Quinton liked handknits, and an afternoon at the day spa complete with a shopping spree because Renee liked aromatherapy.
For the record, I wasn’t aware that Renee had an opinion about pachouli verses lavender verses bergamot. Then again, I hadn’t known she was engaged, either. Because I hadn’t been paying attention. And that was my fault.
Finally, and jarringly, I’d been informed just as we sat down that Alaric had given Renee the entire week off after Christmas and had told her it was my idea.
My idea. Mine.
I didn’t know which irritated me more, that Alaric had been so high handed, or that Renee had believed him. We’d worked together for over ten years and it was like she didn’t know me at all.
On the surface, I was present. I lifted my mug of black coffee for a sip. It was actually good, and so I took another sip. Alaric kept watching my reactions with what he probably thought was subtlety. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but I did my best to outwardly participate.
“Thank you for everything,” Renee said suddenly, voice bright.
“It’s been years since Quinton and I have been able to spend this much uninterrupted time together.
You can imagine how nice it is to finally, uh, that is—” She stopped as her eyes met mine, maybe because she realized that, out of everyone in the room, I was most likely to have zero imagination in this department.
“You’re welcome. It’s the least we could do.” Alaric gave my shoulders a little squeeze before removing his arm from my chair.
I felt a jab of something—frustration, maybe, or a more pedestrian species of loneliness—but I forced it away with another sip of coffee.
“Well,” I spoke between sips. “Enjoy it.”
Quinton, mid-bite, gave a little laugh. “You know, at my job, most people get the week between Christmas and New Year’s off every year. It’s practically standard. Unless you’re on call.”
He said it without malice, but the implication sat there between us, a little sticky glob of condescension. I tried on a smile, found it didn’t fit, and let it drop.
Alaric nodded toward Quinton. “That’s what we do, at my company. Everyone gets the whole week off.”
I turned on him. “How nice. Tell me, do you also give everyone Chanukah off? How about Ramadan?”
Alaric set down his mug, slow and deliberate, and folded his hands while fighting a smile, as though sparring with me about such matters was the highlight of his day. “We do, if that’s how they elect to take their holiday time.”
Renee perked up. “Holiday time?”
“Yes. We have sick leave, paid time off, and a third category called holiday leave so that people can take time as they see fit for their own unique circumstances.”
“I’m confused, aren’t you retired?” Renee glanced between us.
“Yes. From venture capital, for a while now.” Alaric dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I’m referring to the team at my non-profit.”
“I guess having that much money means you’ll aways be working.” Quinton’s tone sounded almost sympathetic.
What. The. Hell.
Alaric was a freaking billionaire. No billionaire on the planet deserved sympathy. Not a single one. Quinton was a weirdo.
I zeroed in on the flaw. “How much time do people get at your non-profit? I mean, total between sick, PTO, and holiday leave?” The mere idea of three different leave types struck me as communist. Or, at the very least, anti-capitalist.